


And Fear Finds Nothing Left to Mend

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [100]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Family Drama, Future Fic, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21548716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: Knowing that the Slayer has hard decisions to make is one thing. Being the subject of one is quite another.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Series: The Barbverse [100]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/514
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	And Fear Finds Nothing Left to Mend

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same universe as "Raising In the Sun," "Necessary Evils," and "A Parliament of Monsters." The story includes some elements of Dark Horse comics canon, but I do very different things with them. Thanks to my incredible betas, Bewildered, Slaymesoftly, Trepkos, Typographer, Cornerofmadness, SzmattyCat, and Maevepagan. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.

Stop me if you've heard this one before. A vampire walks into a bar... make that two vampires. Or no, one of the vampires is already in the bar... sod it, never mind. Not particularly funny anyway. 

Willow stood in the doorway of the bar when I looked up, scanning the smoky room with superior vampire vision. Unless I made for the back entrance right now, she'd spot me or scent me soon enough. I was none too certain that my legs would function if I attempted to put them through their paces, so I stayed put. Wasn't like I'd been hiding, after all. L.A. is a big city. Millions of people. Thousands of vampires. Even someone as noticeable as yours truly tends to make himself doesn't stand out much. But Will's a determined bird, and no doubt she'd followed the rumor of a brawl here, hacked into a police database there, and voila, Spike. 

"You look like crap," she said, sliding onto the barstool beside me. I ignored her and gave all my attention to my whiskey. Willow frowned at the line of dead soldiers on the bar. "As killing sprees go, this one is pretty lame." 

Nettled, I took another swig from the current combatant. "What, you'd rather I work my way through L.A.'s rumpots than its rum?" I'd get there. Eventually. Last, irrevocable step. Used to burn my bridges while I still stood on them, but that was a long time ago. "That can be arranged if you're so keen on it." 

"Don't be stupid." She sighed. "I heard Buffy's side of it. I thought I should hear yours before kicking you a new... orifice." 

"Generous of you." The whiskey tasted like Grevax bile on my tongue. In this bar, possibly it was. "But unnecessary. The Slayer wants me gone, I'm gone." 

Willow's hand caught me sharply on the back of the head, and caught off-guard, I bloody near cracked my skull open on the bar. I rounded on my impertinent get with a snarl, but Will was having none of it. "You moron!" she said, showing some fang of her own. "The last thing she needs is you gone! She's holding it together by a thread, and the kids – you remember your _living_ children, right? – they're not doing much better, and if you think... Spike?" 

My shoulders had started shaking halfway through her speech, and the bottle shattered in my hand – I'd say it was a waste of good whiskey, but I'd be lying. I dropped my face to my bleeding hands, and if I didn't burst into tears then and there, it was only because I was too drunk to blink my eyelids in concert. Willow sighed and turned to the indifferent Anamovic demon tending the bar. "Coffee, black, lots of it, now," she snapped, and then, turning back to me, "Tell me everything. From the beginning." 

*********

In the beginning, I wanted a family. 

This was back in the real beginning, a hundred and thirty-odd years ago, when I was a soppy human would-be poet. I used to dream of a doting wife and half a dozen adorable brats to fetch my pipe and call me Papa – well, not the wife; she'd call me Mr. Pratt in company, and William in our more intimate moments. When Drusilla sired me, that particular dream was buried deeper than ever she buried me, but it was still germinating, six feet under. For the next hundred and twenty years, the only thought I gave to adorable brats was when I was feeling peckish. Until I ended up in Sunnydale, up against my third Slayer, and you know the rest of that story. After the business with the Mohra blood, when Buffy broke it to me she was expecting, that old dream clawed its way back to life just as I had. 

Like me, it had suffered a sea-change or two for the burying. The Slayer's not one for doting, and I don't smoke a pipe. But I'll take the rich and strange reality over my past self's prosaic imaginings any day, yeah? Early on, Buffy wasn't as thrilled as I was about the prospect of parenthood. But she came around in the end, and I'd swear on anything you cared to name that she loves our kids as much as I do. More. Which is why I couldn't... well, we'll get there. 

The Git strolled into the crypt one balmy summer evening, 'bout two months back. I was perusing the new orders and deciding what I was going to go out and kill that night. Time was, my second-in-command, David, would have intercepted him and found out his business, but as you may have heard, David had met a dusty and annoying end a year or two back, and I hadn't found a replacement yet. Not easy finding decent minions, er, employees, at the best of times, but when you demand they stop killing people as a condition of employment it's bloody near impossible. 

So The Git made his self-important way down to the lower level and into my office unimpeded, shrugging off Clem's offer of bottled water and Evie's laser death-glare. He was a weedy sort of bloke in his thirties, a few years younger than Buffy, perhaps. Sandy hair, pale eyes, hipster goatee and moustache waxed to an exacting curl. And a bloody monocle, for God's sake. I remember thinking he looked familiar, somehow, but I couldn't place him. For all the summer heat, he was kitted out like an extra from _Doctor Zhivago_ : top hat, white gloves, and a big astrakhan coat, which I suppose passes for high fashion among the Hogwarts crowd. He squinted at me through his eyepiece, like he wasn't quite used to it yet. "William the Bloody, I presume? Consort of Slayers? The first living vampire? Owner, proprietor, and demon-hunter-in-chief of Blood Vengeance Incorporated, the premier supplier of demon parts and related magical paraphernalia in Southern California?" 

He had some kind of put-on Transatlantic accent which kept slipping. Still couldn't place him. I leaned back till my chair creaked, laced my hands behind my head, and propped my bootheels on my desk. "That's the name on the desk. Who've I got the dubious pleasure of addressing?" 

"My name is Wellington," he proclaimed. "John Wellington. My card." He extended the card, and when I failed to take it, let it flutter to the surface of my desk. "In one short week, I plan to conduct a major summoning ritual in the ruined temple on Kingman's Bluff – you're familiar with it?" Without waiting for me to indicate familiarity or lack thereof, Wellington went on, "I wish to engage your firm to obtain some items for me. Because they must be absolutely fresh, I'm prepared to pay extra for you to deliver them to me personally on the night of the ritual." He fumbled with his monocle for a bit, then produced a sheet of paper from an inner coat pocket, and slid it across my desk, to keep his calling-card company. "Will procuring any of these items be a problem?" 

I sat up, fished my spectacles out of my desk drawer, and took my time giving his list a once-over. Fengar horn, an Ulquitarh's upper breath sac... whatever this ritual was for, the bloke wasn't sparing any expense. At the bottom of the list were written two dollar figures, the first one labeled, 'In Advance,' and the second, 'Upon Delivery.' Wizards are notoriously tight-fisted pillocks as a rule, but that was a lot of naughts. I glanced at him over the rims of my specs. "Looks like this is in service of some fairly high-powered mojo. You wouldn't be planning anything I'd feel obliged to warn the Slayer about, would you?" 

Wellington laughed, a false-sounding "Ha ha ha ha!" and tipped me a wink. "I did say it was a major ritual. My good man... er, pire, I give you my word that the good people of Sunnydale, nay, indeed, of the world, have nothing to fear from me. I intend to summon a puissant spirit of the nether depths to advise me on certain matters astrological, and Sunnydale's fortuitous situation atop a former Hellmouth is perfect for my divinations. I'm willing to advance you this much tonight, with the remainder payable upon delivery." He indicated the numbers written on his calling-card. "Do we have an agreement?" 

It did occur to me that Wellington was very possibly up to no good. I'm not completely thick. But I had a growing family to support, and none of the items on his list were on my list of demon parts I wouldn't deal in. And if he were a villain, there was no reason I shouldn't sock him for the money now and help Buffy take him down later, if necessary. "Cash," I said, "and none of your fairy gold, either, or I'll have your molars for a necklace." 

"Done," said Wellington, and we shook on it. He had a grip like a dead fish. 

If I'd known what was coming, I'd have torn his throat out then and there. Sans benefit of hindsight, I only told Evie to show Wellington out, shoved my paperwork off on Clem, and went merrily about my business. 

Around two in the morning, business concluded, I headed home. The windows at 1630 Revello Drive were dark, and I stood for a moment on the threshold, luxuriating in the knowledge that I could step across it any time I liked. The night-time creaks and groans of the house (couldn't call it old when it was barely half my age) were familiar friends. And upstairs, right as they should be, the most important sounds of all: One, two, three, four heartbeats, Connie, Alex, and Buffy's human-fast, and our eldest, Bill's, as slow as my own. It's funny, when you think of it: Drusilla was the one who took my life, and she was the one who gave it back again. My dark princess didn't take kindly to me falling for the Slayer, for all she was the one who put horns on me first. She never did like anyone else playing with her toys, did Dru. I wonder sometimes if she foresaw what would happen when she dosed me with the Mohra blood. Whether she thought it was a blessing or a curse she was leaving me with. Never been sure, myself, but I wouldn't go back to being an ordinary vampire now. Life has its advantages. 

I cat-footed upstairs, and as I passed the boys' room, Bill's tousled head appeared in the doorway. He fumbled for his spectacles – poor kid inherited his dad's crappy eyesight along with the fangs – and whispered, "Dad! I've figured it out. I can move down to the basement and have my own room, and Alex and the new baby can share this room. I could have a whole wall of maps for – " 

Where the hell we were going to put Number Four when he arrived had been a topic of family debate of late. Ultrasound said it was another boy; my ears told me that it was another vampire. The crib could stay in our bedroom for a bit, but once he got older... "And what are your mum and I to do for a training room if you've got the basement cluttered up with maps?" 

"Oh, you can train at the crypt!" Bill waved my objections away with the same tone I'd used on my dad when I advanced the perfectly logical reasons I ought to be allowed to ride his hunter instead of the pony. 

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," I said, in the same tone my dad used to dash my youthful dreams of steeplechase victories. "You know bloody well your mum will have the last word anyway; she always does. Back to bed before we wake her, yeah?" 

Buffy, of course, was awake already; not much goes on in this house that the Slayer hasn't got a hand in. "Hey there," she murmured as I slipped into bed beside her. She snuggled in close as I wrapped an arm around her middle, which was rounding out nicely. Ordinarily, Buffy and I take it in turns to do the slay-at-home parent thing, but when she's expecting, I do more of the heavy lifting. "What about Christopher?" 

I stroked her belly. "Odd name for a vampire, pet." 

"Well, his father did come back from the dead. Besides, I just like it." Buffy propped her head up on one elbow. "Anything happen tonight that I need to know about?" 

"Some rum cove with an eyeglass is paying us a small fortune for the personal delivery of various bits and bobs to the temple out on Kingman's Bluff in a week's time," I said, yawning. 

"Huh." I could hear the frown in her voice. "Any of the bobbity bits out of the ordinary?" 

"Mmm, no special orders as such, but you don't use Fengar horn unless you're summoning serious power." Or so Anya's informed me. 

The frown had reached Buffy's eyes. Kingman's Bluff rises to the east, beyond the modest glow of Sunnydale's city lights. The ruins themselves aren't much to look at, only a few low, crumbling walls and a toppled pillar or two. Rupert Giles allowed there was a good deal more hidden beneath the surface. Some years back, Buffy and I had run afoul of some Rwasundi demons, who'd sent us back in time to when the Master, my late unlamented great-great-grandsire, was still trying to raise the Old Ones – according to Edna Mae Wilkins, one Old One in particular, the founder of the Aurelian line, thought to repose somewhere beneath that buried temple. Never seen the point, myself; I've met an Old One or two, and they're no fun at parties. 

Buffy laid a hand on her belly. "I've got a twitchy feeling about this. Maybe I should come along when you make this delivery." 

Wish I could say I felt a premonition of doom, and that I'd insisted she stay home. But premonitions were Dru's thing, not mine. I grew up in a time when _she who faces death by torture for each life beneath her breast_ was more than poetic fancy, but Buffy always had easy pregnancies – she was the Slayer, and in as near to perfect health as a woman could get. Nor was she one to take stupid risks. Wasn't like she was proposing to go one-on-one with a Chirago demon, here. We'd gone through this together three times now, and we both trusted that the other knew what they were about. 

Maybe that was where we went wrong. 

************

The full moon rose above our heads on the night we hiked up to the top of Kingman's Bluff, but we scarcely needed its light. We'd walked this trail a hundred times over, hunting demons or indulging in the occasional midnight picnic. Took it a bit slower than usual, on account of Buffy's delicate condition, but not that much slower. 

We crested the top of the bluff. Wellington'd been a busy little beaver. The stone floor of the old temple had been scraped free of dirt and grass and laid bare to the night sky. At the far end, the slab tilted drunkenly down between a brace of crumbling pillars to bury itself in the earth. Last time we'd been up here, the bases of the pillars had been buried in sumac scrub. Now the tangle of brush had been uprooted, and the paving-stone between the two pillars had been prised up. Where it'd lain, an inky black hole with a set of shallow stone stairs circled down into the earth. 

That explained why we'd never discovered this entrance whilst larking about up here; no one who didn't already know what he was looking for could have guessed that stairwell was hidden here. Wellington was crouched beside one of the pillars, studying the carvings with an electric torch and a magnifying glass. He was still kitted out like bleeding Ernest Shackleton. He bounced to his feet when he saw the two of us, and clapped his gloved hands together, very nearly losing his monocle. "Ah, you've arrived!" he cried. "Capital, capital! And this must be your lovely wife, the famous Slayer of Vampyres!" He took Buffy's hand and planted a kiss on it - probably intended to be Continental, but it fell short somewhere around the Isle of Man. "The preparations for the incantation are very nearly complete. You have all of the required materials?" 

Buffy retrieved her hand, and surreptitiously wiped it on her jeans. She was eyeing Wellington with a puzzled frown – like she, too, thought he looked familiar, and couldn't place him. I unslung the knapsack I'd been lugging. "All present and accounted for." He reached for it, and I hoisted it over my head. "Ah, ah, ah. First there's the matter of the delivery fee." 

"Of course! How very thoughtless of me." From an inner coat-pocket Wellington produced a wallet, and from the wallet produced a bundle sufficient to power the Summers-Pratt household for some months. I'd stashed his previous payment in the Bloody Vengeance Inc. account right quick, of course – if it were fairy gold, I intended the Sunnydale Securities Bank to take the hit if it evaporated. The git made a show of counting out the brass, and I made an equal show of opening the knapsack and displaying the scaly hunks of flesh and bone he'd contracted for. 

"Eeeeexcellent!" Wellington beamed at us. "You've fulfilled your portion of our bargain admirably – " He took hold of the backpack by one strap and tried to lift it, staggered for a pace or two, and set it down with a thump. "Er... I regret to say that my pursuit of the spiritual has resulted in a slight neglect of the physical. I believe this may be just a trifle too heavy for me to comfortably – er – that is – would you mind assisting me just a bit further?" He gestured at the stairwell. "The area where I'll be conducting the ritual isn't far." 

I cocked an eyebrow at Buffy. Could all but see the wheels turning in her head: If Wellington couldn't heft a fifty-pound backpack, it was bloody well certain he couldn't have given that stone the heave-ho. Either he was stronger than he let on, or he'd had help, or both. We'd been wondering what mischief the wanker was really managing, and this would give us a chance to suss it out. "All right," she said, "but we can't stay too long. I promised Bill I wouldn't stick him with watching the younger kids all night." 

Let's note for posterity that this was the last chance for yours truly to convince the Slayer to stay behind, and yours truly let it sail on by. Wellington started down the stairs, and we followed. Buffy switched on her own torch, dropping behind me so's the light wouldn't bugger up my night vision. As evil shrines go, this one was bog standard. We passed vile runes, abandon-hope-all-ye-who-enter inscriptions, and the occasional bas-relief of some snake-haired slapper. Wellington pointed them out like a tour guide, enthusing over the Pre-Columbian chthonic symbolism. "The iconography of Proserpexa's cult is just fascinating," he gushed. "You're familiar with the history of these ruins, I imagine?" 

"Just the CliffsNotes." Buffy laid a hand against the wall of the stairwell to steady herself; we'd gone down a fair few turns, and even I was getting dizzy. "Chapter One: Temple to evil demonic overlord, erected. Chapter Two: Temple to evil demonic overlord, handily crushed in earthquake. Earthquaking seems to be the go-to method around here for crushing evil temples." 

"It's no coincidence." Wellington gave us an exaggerated wink. "The late Mayor Wilkins had... underworld connections, shall we say. In 1932, Proserpexa's followers attempted to use her effigy to destroy the world. Wilkins arranged an earthquake to interrupt the ceremony, just as he did in 1937, when he trapped the Master before he could raise the Old One." He gave me a knowing look. "You're a member of the Master's line yourself; you must know all about that." 

I grunted. Due to the time-travel _contretemps_ I mentioned earlier, Buffy and I had ring-side seat to some of it. "I know it was all bollocks. Barring Illyria, the Old Ones have been stewing in the Deeper Well for millennia. Old Bat-Nose was fooling himself if he thought he could fetch one here just by jawing about it." 

"Ah! That's the trick of it, you see." We'd reached the bottom of the stairs. Wellington pressed a near-invisible button in the stonework, and made a self-satisfied noise at the rumble of stone on stone as a new passageway opened for us. "The Master wasn't trying to raise _an_ Old One. He was trying to raise _the_ Old One. Archaeous." 

Huh. I'd never known that Nest's obsession rated a definite article. Nor cared. Buffy asked the more pertinent question. "What difference does that make? Wouldn't he still be stuck in the Deeper Well?" 

"Not at all, fair Slayer!" Wellington warmed to his topic. "As I'm sure you know, the vast majority of vampires are descended from the Old One Maloker, who invested a fresh human corpse with his essence just before he was banished to the confines of the Deeper Well. Only an Old One – a pure demon, unsullied by any taint of human blood – possesses an essence powerful enough to create an entire new race of demons. At least, so everyone thought, until Archaeous managed it. Some claim that he sired Heinrich Joseph Nest directly; others claim that the Master was simply his most powerful descendant by virtue of age and dedication to evil. In either case, the Master created a dynasty of vampires in his service." 

The Slayer cocked her head. "So this Archaeous is what, just a regular, run-of-the-mill demon?" 

"Hardly run-of-the-mill!" exclaimed Wellington. "Archaeous is an extremely powerful and ambitious demon lord. When he succeeded in creating his own line of vampires, he proclaimed himself the successor to the Old Ones – hence the name, which means 'The Old One '. Which made a number of other powerful demons, including Proserpexa, very unhappy. She rallied the other Lords, and together they brought Archaeous low. In the end Proserpexa confined him in the depths of her temple, bound by chains both sorcerous and mundane. The Master eventually tracked his progenitor to Sunnydale, and came here determined to free Archaeous from captivity. But by the time he arrived, this temple had already been shattered, its entrance lost. For reasons I was unable to discover, Nest fixed upon a church near the Hellmouth as the most likely site of Archaeous's imprisonment, and – " 

The reasons Wellington hadn't been able to discover had been the Slayer and me, bollocksing up the Master's location spell at the behest of Edna Mae Wilkins, in exchange for access to the grimoire with the spell we hoped would send us back to our proper time. Our small part in that formidable old bat's schemes hadn't gone down in history, which was probably all for the best. Wellington was still rabbiting on about his research skills, and how he'd discovered the entrance to the temple. What the Slayer was pondering I couldn't tell you, but yours truly was thinking that if all this weren't complete cobblers, it explained a few things about old Heinrich, and why he was so bloody obsessed with purging humanity from himself and his followers. If this Archaeous bloke wasn't a proper Old One, that meant that the Master, and all his descendants, really were just a shade less demonic than your common-or-garden vamp. 

Yeah, yeah, I know, the Judge. Maybe Dru misplaced a few screws putting him back together. More likely, our Liam was just a gigantic knob-end. Come to think, p'raps that's why so many of us made the Watchers' Council's Ten Most Wanted. When you're second best, you try harder. 

About then the tunnel opened out into a cavern you could have chucked the Albert Hall into, and heard it rattle. More pillars, tumbled about like jackstraws. Worn hieroglyphs Rosetta'd up the walls, and several tiers of metal scaffolding chased precariously after them. A small petrol-powered generator hummed beside the tunnel opening, powering the electric lights strung on poles overhead. In the circle of light, crates of supplies surrounded a sleeping bag and a folding table, which held an iPad and a small library of spellbooks. Evidence that our client had been swotting away well in advance of our visit. It was bloody certain Wellington had had assistance setting all this up – I could smell a few muddled, days-old traces of other humans – but no one else was in evidence now. 

"Welcome to my base camp!" Wellington detoured around a stack of petrol cans. "From this humble staging point, I shall pursue ever more daring expeditions into the unknown! Rest assured that there are far greater wonders to be found further into the ruins, but the ritual must be completed first, to ensure safe passage beyond the vasty deeps." 

He gestured to a fissure, wide enough that the other side was shrouded in darkness, which split the cavern in two. I could make out an island in the middle, lit by torches – the old-fashioned kind. A narrow rope-and-plank bridge was strung from our edge of the chasm across to the island. Buffy took one look at it and shook her head. She knew her growing belly threw her balance off just that little bit, and she wasn't about to risk it, not for a chap who was, even odds, trying to draw us into some kind of mystical trap. I gave her a nod and followed on after our possibly-rogue wizard. 

We played it smart, yeah? For all the good it did us. 

Wellington didn't seem to notice that he'd lost a Slayer. I'll give the git this much credit: he reeked of nerves when he put foot on that bridge, but he set his teeth and crossed it regardless. I strolled across after him, knapsack slung casual-like over one shoulder. Showing off, I admit it. What's the good of having supernatural reflexes if you never flex 'em? 

The island was a bare, flat, steep-sided knob of rock, maybe ten yards across. Four torches mounted on poles, north, south, east, and west, sent shadows capering across the stone. In the center was a squat cube of glassy black stone, incised with wriggly not-quite-Greek letters, and coiled round that was a length of massive, rusty chain. The chain ended in a set of equally massive and rusty shackles. Wellington knelt down at the edge of the chasm – to catch his breath, I thought, as he was puffing like a grampus. I took the opportunity to take a shufti at the altar, if altar it was. Those shackles set off warning bells – hell, a whole warning Whittingtons. 

_"Spike!"_

Fuck. If whatever trap Wellington planned to spring was over there, not here – but no, there was Buffy safe as houses on the opposite bank, waving her torch frantically and pointing at Wellington. Who'd just unhitched the ends of the rope bridge, and pitched the whole lot into the abyss. 

Supernatural reflexes aren't worth fuck-all if you're too gobsmacked to use 'em. I was on him a second later, but that was one second too late. The end of the bridge swooped down and away in a graceful arc and bashed into the opposite wall of the chasm. Half-a-dozen boards snapped like matchsticks, and clattered away into infinity. I was brassed off, but worried? Not yet. I vamped out, grabbed Wellington's collar, and hoisted him up at arm's length. He kicked futilely. "What the fuck are you up to?" I snarled. 

"Part – of – ritual – " he choked out. 

He was turning purple. I let him drop, disgusted. Might be I could get enough of a running start to jump back, in which case, Wellington could stick his thumb up his arse and spin. "If you think I'm going to help with your fucking ritual now – " 

Wellington scrambled to his feet and tugged his coat straight. His monocle had gone smash, but he didn't seem to notice. He threw his head back and let loose a Snidely Whiplash laugh – the daft berk actually tried to twirl his moustache, but it wasn't long enough. "Oh, I don't need your help. All I need is _you._ " He spun around to face the abyss with a crazed, exultant grin. "Great Archaeous, I have returned!" he bellowed. "And I've brought you William the Bloody!" 

From the pit below came the rumble of falling rocks, and then a screech like the world's biggest fingernail on the world's biggest slate. Stone vibrated beneath my boots. Sodding hell. Something was climbing the sheer sides of the island, something well out of my weight class. One and then another skeletal, taloned hand flung itself up over the lip of the rock, claws digging into the stone as if it were cheese. The creature heaved itself upwards, and... well. 

You remember what we looked like in Pylea, Will, when we went all demony? Was expecting something like that, if I was expecting anything. Or at worst, something like Angel's Pylea-self. Instead, our great-to-the-nth-degree granddad was human-shaped, sexless, and twenty feet tall. He had a fleshless skull with a forest of nubbly horns sprouting from the top, a sort of bone collar thing round his shoulders, and a cluster of... I dunno, spider legs or suchlike growing out of his back. His slick, shiny hide was a brilliant candy-apple red. All in all, dead naff. Looked like an escapee from the bleeding Cirque du Soleil. Even the skeleton parts were a bit rubbish. 

"I am Archaeus!" he roared. "Lord of Hell, master of pain and despair, sovereign of – " 

"Sweet fuck-all," I interrupted, with a pointed glance around at the island. 

Tactical error, that. The Lord of Whossit and Etcetera slashed out one enormous taloned skeleton-hand and hoisted me into the air as easily as I'd done Wellington earlier. Might be lacking in the aesthetics department, but he was fuck-off enormous, and stronger than year-old Stilton. He held me up and examined me as if he were buying a horse, and less than satisfied about the teeth. At length he bared bony fangs – absent any lips to speak of, hard to tell if he was smiling or snarling. "Yeeeessssss," he said, in a voice like crushed gravel. "This is the thief. I can sense it." 

"Bollocks!" I strained to loosen even one of his finger-talons from round my neck, but I might as well have been fighting the mountain itself. There's times I wish Buffy hadn't given up that Old-One-slaying axe oojum, and this was one of them. Though as this wasn't a proper Old One, p'raps it wouldn't work any better on him than a normal axe. Which I didn't have either. Oh, well. Might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb. "Proserpexa's had you in nick since before I was born, you gormless wanker! How in hell can I have stolen anything from you?" 

Archaeous hissed in fury, his back spider-leg… things... twitching. "I speak of something far more valuable than material goods! Miserable worm that you are, you belong to a proud line. Unlike the profligate, debased descendants of Maloker, my get spread my blessing wisely and sparingly." He sniffed, quite a feat without a nose. "Perhaps too sparingly. The Master's line has dwindled. So be it; the price of failure is extinction. I shall choose more carefully ere I bestow my Dark Gift a second time. My servant here – " he nodded at Wellington, and that worthy gazed up at him with worshipful eyes. I wagered he was angling to be the recipient of any such gift. " has been most informative about your history. Nest's get are mine, unto the furthest generation: when they fall to dust, the demon essence within them returns to me. Save once. Sixteen years ago, confined to this ignoble prison, I sensed the unthinkable – a portion of my essence, my very self, was torn from me. _Stolen._ " 

"You sure you didn't just misplace it? Dank hole like this, no telling where it may have got to." 

"There is no other possibility." The demon-lord's lipless jaws worked. "My essence can only be planted in a dying man, and flower in his corpse. Even when the Mohra blood quickened the flesh of your grandsire Angelus, and he became human, my essence fled his body, and returned to me, as it should have. How you did it I do not know, but somehow you prevented my essence from leaving your body until the revitalization was complete." Archaeous slammed his unoccupied fist into the stone, and a shower of rubble sifted down from the cavern ceiling, accompanied by a scatter of mummified bats. "I will not brook this theft! I will have back what you stole from me." 

"Don't think so, mate," I snarled back. Sixteen years ago, my poor mad Drusilla glued my stolen heart back into my body with Mohra blood, and one William H. Pratt became the world's first living vampire. I'd fought the fight of my unlife that night, to keep body and demon together. To make them one. To make _me_ one. Whatever burned within me now, human, demon, or bloody fairy dust, was _mine._ Buggered if I was going to give it up. "If you can't keep a handle on your own essence, that's your lookout. Finders bloody well keepers." 

"We shall see about that." Archaeous loomed over Wellington. "Is the ritual of reunification prepared?" 

Wellington's eyes brightened. If he'd been a puppy, he'd've piddled in excitement. "It is," he said breathlessly. "All the components are here. But before I cast it, I want you to fulfill your part of the bargain." He pointed across the chasm at Buffy, who was hunting through the rubble for something she could use to get to us, or at least chuck at Archaeous's head. "Kill the Slayer. Or better yet –" he swung a finger around to point at me. "Make him do it!" He laughed, a half-hysterical giggle, and the worshipful glint in his eyes turned gloating. "Yeah! That's it! Make him kill her! Make him tear her throat out! Just like he killed Warren!" 

And like that, it clicked. Take away the ridiculous monocle and the poncy beard, the put-on accent and the muffling clothing. Take away sixteen years. Fuck. I was an idiot. Anyone who knew their Gilbert & Sullivan should've rumbled it at first meeting. 

_My name is John Wellington Wells, I'm a dealer in magic and spells_

John Wellington was Andrew fucking Wells. 

Suppose you'll think it strange, but my respect for the git went up a thousand percent at the realization. He'd spent every second of the last fifteen years concocting his revenge. Couldn't fault him for that. It's what I'd have done, if someone'd killed the love of my life. Wouldn't have taken me fifteen years, but I've got natural advantages. 

If ever there were proof that love's blood, not brains, Wells' pash on Warren Mears was it. In my brief but unpleasant association with Mears, I'd never seen him do aught for Wells save use him or ignore him. When Buffy turned the two of 'em over to the police after they killed that girl, their mate Levinson tried to scrape up enough dosh to get them a lawyer. He managed to get the attention of some tarted-up L.A. bitch name of Morgan, who interviewed the two of 'em, decided that Mears was worth Wolfram & Hart's time, and got him a sentence that couldn't have amounted to more'n three words. Wells, on the other hand, got the dictionary thrown at him, and Mears traipsed off to L.A. without a backwards look. 

But as I've said before, love's a funny thing. 

My demonic great-grandad wasn't so impressed. If there were eyeballs buried somewhere in the black pits of Archaeous' sockets, odds were they were rolling. He tilted his horn-crowned head to sneer at Wells. "Until our essences are once more united, the only control I have over him is of the crude physical variety." He gave me a shake. "Get on with it. And hurry." 

Wells pouted, but he set to it, digging into the knapsack and laying out various oozy bits on the black stone of the altar. Couldn't see Buffy from the angle Archaeous was holding me, but from across the chasm metal screeched like an amorous tomcat, and shortly thereafter, something flung the world's largest boot at the world's largest trash can. It occurred to me that that Archaeous couldn't sport much in the way of la-di-dah magical powers – couldn't throw fireballs, or teleport, or any of that – or he'd have stopped the Slayer from doing whatever it was she was doing. More 'n that, he was tall enough, and the cavern roof low enough over the island, that he couldn't jump across the chasm without bashing his head in. Couldn't even stand up straight. To get across, he'd have to climb down to the bottom, and then scale the opposite wall. What good any of that would do me now I hadn't a clue, but best keep it in mind. 

"All is prepared, O Great One," Wells announced with breathless glee. He hoisted one of the shackles with a grunt of effort. "If you'll just hold him a little lower – " 

Archaeous obliged, and Wells clipped the shackle around my middle, just below the skeletal hand pinning my arms to my sides. "Don't bother trying to break it," he said with a smirk. "These shackles were bespelled to contain a demon lord, so I think they'll hold one measly vampire just fine." 

Fuck. If I'd known this was coming, I'd have skipped a few dinners the week before. But as my mum used to say, if ifs an' ands were pots and pans, there'd be no work for tinkers' hands. Archaeous let me drop, satisfied I wasn't going anywhere, and I rolled over onto my back. My legs were free, at least, and Wells had put the shackle on low about my waist, on account of Archaeous holding me about the chest. Which meant that the shackle pinned my forearms, not my upper arms, and with a bit of work, I might get one free. 

Wells paid no attention whilst I writhed about like a dying haddock. He propped the spellbook he'd fetched along up on the altar-stone, opened it to a well-worn page, and began incanting verses in a demon language I didn't recognize. The spell seemed to involve him swallowing a hunk of demon-flesh after every other line or so, and for a second I almost felt sorry for the berk – some of the bits weren't the freshest, and he soon started looking green about the gills. He kept it up, though, and I braced myself for God knows what. 

Twice before magic's tried to rip me body from demon – first time when you bobbled that spell to bring Buffy back, Will, and again when Dru patched me back together with Mohra blood. This was different – as the minutes and the chant dragged on, I could feel something huge and ancient and vile... calling me home. I could hear Dru's voice in it, singing her mad, sad songs, and Angelus' bellow. Coaxing and cajoling at first, whispering of freedom, of wild red nights and the heady taste of human blood. Then demanding, commanding, bearing down on me with the weight of all the dead black stone overhead, trying to swallow me whole, flood me out of my own head and lift me up to dark salvation, if only I'd reach out and grasp the skeletal hand extended to me.... 

Not much of a spoiler to say I didn't bite. Funny thing was, it wasn't even very hard. Git must have made a hash of the pronunciation or something when he cast the spell – diced when he should have dixited. 

"Well?" Archaeous demanded. 

"Uh..." Wells looked perplexed and queasy, as if the demon bits might make a reappearance at any minute. "I'm not certain, Most Sapient One. It should be working." 

Archaeous hissed, but whatever threats he intended on tossing Wells' way were lost to history, for at that moment there was a SPUNG! loud enough to make the both of 'em swing around. I rolled over in time to see a twelve-foot wooden pole hurtling towards us across the chasm. Buffy love-of-my-fucking-life Summers-Pratt had torn down the scaffolding, lashed the pieces together, and built a giant fucking ballista. The thing was only good for one shot – it fell apart as soon as she let go of the rope – but she made that one shot count. 

Wells' eyes went wide, and he fell backwards, windmilling his arms as he almost tipped over the edge of the island. Archaeous was too big to dodge. The pole speared him right through the chest – missed whatever passed for his heart, but it must have come close. He staggered and collapsed. Yours truly flung himself to one side just in time to escape being buried under several tonnes of candy-apple-red demon arse. Vamps get stronger as they age, but the same things still kill 'em – wood, fire, beheading. Buffy'd told me, many a time, how she killed the Master, and Kakistos. Stood to reason that Archaeous would be vulnerable to the same things his get were — good on the Slayer for working that out, 'stead of wasting time flailing about with an axe or somesuch. Another metallic crash echoed in the dry cavern air; Buffy'd dragged the longest intact piece of her scaffold-catapult to the edge of the cavern and swung it over, so's the end of it just scraped the edge of the island. She was coming across, clinging to a spiderweb of rattling, swaying metal, with grim death in her eyes and a half-dozen roped-together petrol cans slung over her shoulders. 

I could see, clear as if it had already happened, her losing her grip or her balance, and toppling into the void. Fuelled by pure terror, I wrenched my arm up and out of the shackle, scarcely noticing the stripped skin and bones crunching in my wrist. Free. I shoved the shackle down over my hips and leaped to my feet, racing for our precarious new bridge. A petrol can flew over my head, then another, and another, splitting open on the stone and spraying their contents everywhere. 

"Get over here, Spike! Now!" Buffy turned to Wells. "You too!" 

The scaffolding dipped and creaked with my added weight. The ends of the poles jerked and scraped downwards against the steep rocky sides of the island, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought we were all goners. Then a pole-end caught against an inch-deep ledge and stuck. I could hear Wells whimpering behind me, trying to nerve himself to jump onto the scaffolding. "Lighter!" Buffy snapped at me. I dug into my trouser pockets with my working hand, and tossed it to her. Made a note to mention it next time she complained about me smoking in the house. 

Archaeous roared in pain and fury. He didn't dare move, lest he shift the stake he was impaled on and dust himself. "You fool!" he bellowed. "You should have contained her!" 

"It's not my fault!" Wells shrieked back. "The spell should have worked! You were supposed to give me my revenge, damn it!" 

"What revenge?" Buffy stuffed a rag in the neck of the last petrol can. "What the hell is he talking about?" 

"It's wossname," I gasped. "The other, not-Jonathan tosser who helped Warren Mears kill that Katrina bird, all those years back. Seems to have a grudge against us for offing his boyfriend." 

Shouldn't have said _us_. It was me who killed Mears, not her, but the Slayer's always ready to take blame, even when it's none of hers to take. Should have noticed her lips tighten, her eyes harden with determination. She flicked my lighter, lit the fuse, and flung her improvised Molotov cocktail, all in one smooth motion. The bomb sailed over Wells' head, trailing sparks, and hit the island with a colossal BOOM! The spilt petrol ignited, and the island went up in flames. Wells jumped for the scaffolding. And Great-granddad lashed out with one of the spider-leg things on his back, speared Wells through the collar of his ridiculous greatcoat, and dragged him screaming back into the inferno. 

Wells was bundled up in so much wool the flames couldn't get to him immediately, but in a moment or two that wouldn't matter. "Come on, love!" I grabbed Buffy's arm, tugging her towards the opposite bank. "He's done for! You can't – " 

I was going to say 'risk it.' Suspect Buffy thought I was going to say 'save him.' Well, and what if I had? True enough either way. But it wasn't what she wanted to hear just then. She popped me a quick one to the nose, naught but a love tap by Slayer standards. Just hard enough to set me back on my heels as she lunged past me. 

She's magnificent, yeah? She kicked off the scaffolding and made the island in a single leap, grabbed Wells, and chucked him at me, leaving Archaeous with naught but the shredded remains of the greatcoat. I caught Wells with my good hand, and he plastered himself to the scaffolding like a limpet, wailing. "Oh, God, oh God, it wasn't supposed to be like this!" 

Backlit by flames, Buffy spun round, but before she could jump, Archaeous' clawed hand closed on her middle like a vise, and his boney fingers clenched hard. I heard ribs snap, and saw her face twist in agony. Think I screamed something then. Not sure. Next thing I knew I was clinging to a flame-wreathed wrist the size of my whole body, tearing off great smoking chunks of candy-apple-red flesh with my fangs. Since the Mohra blood, I'm a hair less flammable than the average vamp, and that's the only thing which saved me from going up the chimney with Great-granddad. Wasn't pleasant, even so. 

Either the flames or my teeth were too much for him – Archaeous let the Slayer drop, and I scooped her up and over my shoulder, and dove for the scaffold. Thank fuck for vampire reflexes. Wells had already skittered across, and was waiting for me on the other side. Suppose he fancied his chances better with us than without us. Soon as my boots hit stone on the other side, I kicked the scaffolding off the edge, sending it to follow the bridge. Archaeous bellowed and cursed behind me, and reflected flames set the hieroglyphs on the cavern walls dancing. I didn't care to hang about and see if he burnt to a crisp or not. Buffy was moaning in my arms, clutching her belly. 

"I didn't think there'd be so much blood," Wells whispered, half to himself. He was slapping out the smouldering patches on his clothes, and looked decidedly sickish. "Wh–what's wrong with her? She – she's the Slayer! She has, like, superpowers." 

"She's pregnant, you festering gobshite!" I shoved him and his silly face aside, snarling, "You summoned the big red bastard, you can undo him!" 

Rest of the night's a bit of a blur, to be honest. I got Buffy up the stairs and down the bluff somehow. Broke every traffic law on the books rushing her to hospital. Found out later that they'd tried to book me for treatment myself, seeing as I looked like a slab of burnt toast, but I'd vamped out and refused to leave her side. Must have texted Harris at some point, 'cause he came down to the emergency room, pried me off Buffy, and made me ring up Bill, and Dawn in L.A. Christ knows what either of them thought; I must've sounded stark raving. By the time Dawn'd promised that she and Charlie'd be driving up to Sunnydale right off, the medical chaps had whisked Buffy away on a gurney. 

You'll have guessed that by then it was too late. Probably too late from the moment Archaeous got his claws on her. Broken ribs, internal bleeding... she'd recover, of course. Our little Christopher-to-be, though... he wasn't so lucky. Slayer healing's good, but there's limits to what it covers. 

Never in my life been so nauseated by the smell of blood. 

Wells found me in the waiting room, some time after. Stripped of his disguise and slathered in burn cream and gauze, he looked the worse for wear, though not nearly as worse as I'd have liked. "Spike? I had to come tell you – urk!" 

It's an art, holding someone by the throat, hard enough they don't wriggle free, not so hard they suffocate before you want 'em dead. I slammed Wells up against the antiseptic green wall and let him see the hellfire burning in my eyes for a second. "You'd best have an excellent reason for being within striking range of my teeth, mate. This's all a bloody game to you, innit? Well, I play for keeps." 

"Archaeous!" Wells croaked, flailing against the wall. Down the hall a pair of orderlies turned to look, obviously considering having a word with me. "I came to tell you – I tried to unsummon him, but the altar was destroyed in the fight. He crawled down into the depths once the stake came loose. He... he may have gotten into some of the old Hellmouth tunnels. I can't tell. I think he's beyond the range of the spell." 

Fuck. Well, if he got into the deeper tunnels, with any luck, our old friend Clarence the Harrier demon would do for him. Just touch wood he didn't cave in the entire town in the process. My lip curled. "Considering how well your bell-book-and-candle routine worked on me, likely you just cocked up the dismissal spell." 

He shook his head, well as he could while I had him pinned. "You don't understand. There's not many things I'm good at, but magic is one of them. I've been plotting revenge for fifteen years. That spell was perfect. _Perfect._ I didn't mess up. It failed because... whatever Archaeous is, you're not that any longer. The Law of Contagion is no longer in effect." His voice was almost reverent. "You... you're something different." 

I went full vamp-face, and the pair of orderlies wisely reconsidered. "Not that different." I let go of his throat, and he rolled over, coughing, and pushed himself up off the linoleum. 

He looked up at me. "I didn't know. That she was – you know. I never meant – " 

Rage washed over me. "Yeah? Fine and dandy to summon up a demon lord to kill a woman if she's not up the duff, then?" 

"You don't understand!" Wells' gauze-wrapped fists clenched at his sides. "I know Warren never loved me, but I loved him. I had to make what we had mean something!" His thin chest heaved. "I had to make you both pay! I just didn't think it would be... like this. Don't tell me you wouldn't – that you haven't – done the same!" 

All of a sudden I was sick of him. Not least 'cause he was right. "Maybe so. But not today. I'm going to let you go now. And I'm never going to see you again, yeah? Not because it's the right thing to do, not because I feel a single bloody ounce of compassion for you, but because I know killing you will hurt Buffy more'n it satisfies me." I bared my fangs. "Don't make Mears' mistake, mate. Run. Before I change my mind." 

He ran. Dunno where he went. Don't care. 

Next thing I remember clearly is coming to in Buffy's hospital room. Suppose I've got Harris to thank for getting the medical boffins to let me stay there, too. Damn him. The curtains were drawn, lit from behind with the molten glow of afternoon sunlight. She was lying still as stone in the bed, face ash-pale against stark white sheets. The salt smell of her tears pricked my nose. Not, for once, the Slayer, but only Buffy. She's taken worse hurt than this before, but I'd never seen her look so frail, so small, as if what we'd lost had taken a piece of her soul with it. 

"Oh, love," I whispered, or tried to – my throat felt like I'd swallowed a scrub-brush whole. I managed to peel myself out of the chair and crab-walk my way over to the bed, shedding flakes of burnt skin all the way. She hates tears, Buffy does. Thinks them a weakness. I've always taken it as an honor that she'll let me hold her while she weeps. We sat there for a long time, me holding her, rocking her. And if I'd just kept my fucking gob shut, all might have been... no, it would never have been _well._ Adding a dash of Spike just made it worse, as per sodding usual. 

What d'you say to mend another's heart when your own is lying in pieces at their feet? Not much good at comfort at the best of times, me. Likely I babbled nonsense for a good long time, as much to drown out the sound of my own thoughts as anything else. But I remember the thing that sent it all to hell: "We can't let this happen again." 

I felt Buffy go stiff and angry in my arms. "What do you mean?" 

Truth was, I was lashing myself with the thought that I should've protected her – gone all manly and commanding, and forbidden her to come with me, or some such rot, as if that would ever have worked. Pulled up short, I blinked and stammered out, "Just – I should've known it was too dangerous. Should've taken Evie or Elyse along as backup instead of you. Should've – " 

"Oh, that's a great idea. So Archaeous could have taken them over and used them against you?" The Slayer shoved me off and sat up with a gasp of pain – broken ribs take some days to heal even for the likes of us, as I know to my sorrow. Her voice was brittle, anger like a slick of ice over an ocean-deep well of pain. "Are you saying I don't know how to do my job?" 

Thing about the Slayer is, she's most likely to strike at you when she's angry with herself. What I should've done was soothed her down, told her we'd both done the best we could with what we knew. I'm not built for that kind of thing. I've learnt it, over the years, after a fashion, but it don't come natural. Suppose it's different for you, Will, having a soul and all, but... right then, my lessons failed me. Gutted as I was, I had to take it out on someone, and Buffy was the only one there. "I bloody well told you to leave Wells be!" 

Come to that, maybe me and the Slayer aren't so different after all. 

Her eyes and her mouth hardened, and the ice grew deeper. "I'm the Slayer, Spike. I don't get to 'leave people be.' I can't just turn my back and walk away when someone needs help!" 

"You're _a_ Slayer," I snapped. "There's times when someone else has to save the world – or Wells." 

"The only other person there was you, and _you_ were ready to cut and run!" She didn't say _coward,_ but I heard it in her voice anyway, and it burnt deeper than the petrol had. 

“The tosser brought it on himself! Didn't deserve saving anyhow.” 

Wouldn't have thought either of us had any tears left, but they were flowing down her cheeks regardless. "Unlike some people, I don't get to pick and choose who gets saved – and who the hell are _you_ to decide that Andrew isn't worth saving?" Her voice broke in sheer fury. "How many people have you killed again, Spike? I'm betting it's a few more than Andrew has! God, every time I think that maybe, just maybe, you get it just the teeniest bit, you prove to me that you don't, and you can't, and you never will! Andrew wouldn't even have been here, doing this, if _you_ hadn't killed Warren Mears!" 

If I'd shut up. If I'd backed down. If I'd said anything, anything at all, 'cept the thing I did say... 

"You bloody well did choose. You chose Andrew fucking Wells over our child." Having stuck the knife in, I had to twist it. That's the thing about being a vampire, as you've no doubt found out. Pulse or no pulse, we're built to inflict pain. It's like wine for us; goes to our heads. Not saying I couldn't help myself, mind. 'S just that in that moment, I didn't want to. "You just had to play hero to salve your conscience over letting me kill Mears, didn't you? I bloody well hope it's satisfied now." 

Moment I saw the words strike home, I would've swallowed holy water to take 'em back. Too late, of course. Buffy fell back upon the sheets, her eyes great dark bruised hollows in her bloodless face. "Leave," she said, in a voice like death. "Leave _now._ " 

So I left. What the fuck else could I do, after that? 

You may wonder why it never occurred to me that Buffy might have just been ordering me out of her room rather than out of her life. If you'd been there, Will, seen her eyes and heard her voice in that minute, it wouldn't have occurred to you to wonder either. S' funny. When Drusilla gave me my walking papers, I was heartbroken and furious. Robbed a liquor store, killed the clerk, stashed as much of the stock as would fit into the boot of the DeSoto, and lit out for Sunnydale the very same night. Walking out of hospital, I was... numb, I s'pose. A less-charitable narrator might say I just didn't know what to do with myself after a breakup when I was already in Sunnydale. 

But back in the old days, it was only me and Dru. I'd spent the last nigh-on-twenty years gladly forging the chains that bound me to these people and this town, and sloughing them all in a night? Impossible. I stopped off at home, first. 

The sun was just setting, and the big trees in the front yard gave enough shade that I was safe from incineration. I stood there on the front porch, staring at the door, for a good long time. No one'd revoked my invitation, but somehow the place didn't feel as if I'd a right to it any longer. I could hear Harris snoring on the couch inside, and as he'd doubtless been up all night and into the morning, I didn't feel up to waking him. 

I was sitting on the front steps, putting the finishing touches on a note for Harris, when Bill found me. "Dad?" He sounded terrified, poor lad, standing in the doorway and squinting into the waning daylight. "Is Mom – ?" 

"Recovering," I said, and he wilted in relief. He hop-skipped across the sun-barred expanse of the porch and sank down beside me on the steps. I put an arm round his shoulders and held on hard. "She'll likely be coming home in a day or two. Bill, lad... there's been..." My voice cracked, and I had to stop for a bit. "Your Aunt Dawn and Uncle Charlie will be here in a bit. I've a note here for them, and one for Harris – you can read the big words to him, yeah?" 

I handed him my leaves of scribbled-over note paper. I hadn't wanted to leave this for a text, but saying it face to face was beyond me. He looked up at me, alarmed again. Folks say our eldest takes after me, but he has his mother's eyes, and in that moment I could scarcely bear to look at them. "What are you talking about, Dad?" 

"Your mum and I, we've had a... that is, we've decided..." I was stammering like bloody Rupert on his tweediest day. "She's gone through a lot, and it's best I... give her some space." 

"Space? What's that mean?" Our boy's no dunce. "Did you have a fight?" 

I let him go and stood up. "I'll be going away for a bit. Dunno how long. Tell your sis and your brother – tell 'em I love 'em, and I'd stay if I could." Fuck, no, that wasn't right. "If I thought I could make things better. You tell 'em that." 

Bill looked as pole-axed as I felt, but anger was starting to creep into his voice. "Why can't you tell them yourself? You can't just leave! This is crazy! You guys argue all the time, and it never means anything! Mom's going to need you – we're going to – " 

If I'd listened to another word – but just then, Charlie and Dawn Gunn pulled up. Dawn threw herself headlong out of the car and raced up the front walk. I took the opportunity to make a vamp-speed dash in the other direction, flinging myself into the front seat before Charlie could get out. Bill, behind me, was yelling, "Dad! Come back!" Heartbroken and furious. My boy does take after me in some ways. 

"Spike, what the hell is up?" Charlie demanded. "Dawn said she got this crazy call in the middle of the night – " 

I'd need to arrange for someone to take charge of Bloody Vengeance Inc., till I could decide whether to sign it over to Buffy, or sell it off and give her the dosh – bugger me if I was going to pull a Hank Summers on her. Fuck. Would Buffy consider her truce with Bloody Vengeance's employees null and void? Would she want a formal divorce? Would she let me visit the sprogs? Would the sprogs even want me to visit? The sound of chains breaking hollowed me out. "Just drive," I said. "I'll explain presently, but right now I need – " and my past self would stake himself if he'd any inkling these words'd ever leave my lips, " – to speak to my solicitor." 

***********

"So Charlie and Anya are fixing it all up," I said. "About the business. So the kids won't be left without... won't be left." I stared down at my hands. The slashes from the bottle I'd crushed were already starting to heal, and for a mad second I wished they wouldn't, wished I could wear the pain on the outside for as long as it'd last on the inside. "That's it, then. My tale of woe. Do your worst." 

Willow looked me up and down for a considerable time, like a sculptor assessing a block of stone and finding it wanting. "Okay," she said at last. "Answer me this: Do you think Buffy loves your children and wants to keep them safe?" 

"What kind of fuckwitted question is that? Of course she does." 

"Just checking." Will sat back, cocked her head, and folded her arms across her chest. "Suppose you're right. Suppose Buffy only tried to save Andrew because she felt guilty about not saving Warren, all those years ago. Say the guilt led her to make a terrible error of judgement. Just how bad do you think Buffy must have felt for it to be stronger than – " 

"Don't you think I know that, Will?" I stared moodily into the bitter black sludge that passed for coffee here and grimaced – was on a par with the whiskey, is all I'll say for it. One of the upsides to my current condition is, the quantity of alcohol I have to down to get thoroughly plastered isn't quite as epic as it was when I was undead. The concurrent downside is, it takes me longer to sober up once the plastering's been achieved. "May not be able to see the wind, but I can see the oak it topples. I left 'cause she's right. I don't give a piss about Warren Mears, then or now, and I never sodding understood why she did, and I never will. I thought she'd got that all out of her system after that dust-up with the Guardian. If that's what she needs from me..." I drew a ragged breath. "All the more reason for me to be out of her life, 'cause I can't give it. I'm a demon, and I can't change – Ow!" 

"Bullshit!" Willow'd vamped out and lunged across the table, smacking me hard upside the head. "I was there when you killed Warren, remember? I'm the one who talked you into it – no, don't argue with me, listen. If you can't change, then answer one question: why is Andrew Wells still alive?" 

I gawped at her. She went on, relentless. "No, you’re not _good._ You're approaching goodness on an asymptotic curve, and you'll never quite get there. But you're still miles away from where you started. I can see it, even if you can't. And Buffy sees it too, even if she wasn’t in a place to admit it that night. That’s why _you’re_ still alive." She leaned over the table and looked me in the eye. "Buffy's chosen you over what she thought was her duty a dozen times over, because she loves you. This time she chose what she thought was her duty over you. And maybe she made a horrible mistake, or maybe it was the right thing to do and she just ran out of luck, because that happens sometimes, and you know what? It doesn't matter. What does matter is, do you love _her_ enough to stand by her when she doesn't choose you? Because she _is_ the Slayer, and it won't be the last time. If you don't, if you'd rather stay here in L.A. and sob into your beer while she's going through the worst time of her entire life, instead of getting your skinny vampire ass back to Sunnydale THIS MINUTE and being the person she needs to get through this, whoever that is, then I am done with you, Spike! Do you understand me?" 

She sat back with a yellow-eyed glare. I gulped and nodded. Don't think I had the wherewithal to do anything else. Soul or no soul, my girl Will makes a sodding brilliant vampire. 

So I went home. What the fuck else could I do, after that? 

***************

I slunk back into Sunnydale late on a summer evening, finding it much as I'd left it. Bill heard the thunder of the DeSoto's engine well before anyone else in the household. He was standing on the porch as I pulled up, fists clenched at his sides. He watched as I got out of the car and trudged up the front walk like it was the sodding Green Mile. 

"Dad?" my eldest asked. His voice shook a bit, like he feared I'd vanish into the smoke peeling off my shoulders in the last rays of the setting sun. Then his eyes, what you could see of them behind the taped-together specs, flashed yellow, and his voice turned hostile. Recalling he hated my guts now, no doubt. "What are you doing here?" 

"I'm here to speak to your mum, if she'll oblige me." Christ, would I have to pick him up and set him aside to get in, if I could get in? Would Buffy have disinvited me? Will claimed she'd let Buffy know I was coming, but nonetheless, dread weighted my belly at the sight of the threshold. 

Bill huffed out a breath of anger or contempt, but he turned and yelled into the house, "MOM! HE'S HERE!" 

A moment later, Buffy's pale face appeared in the doorway, carefully applied mascara and lipstick a defiant _I'm just fine, damn you_. Still looked tired and wan and thinner than she should have for a woman so recently expecting, but I'd ever seen anything more beautiful in my life. "Spike," she said. Could hear her heart going a mile a minute, smell fear and sorrow and anger. Which would win out, I hadn't a clue. "Bill, go inside. Your father and I need to talk." 

"But Mom – " 

_"Go."_

Bill gave me a last poisonous look and went. For a long moment Buffy and I stared at one another. Then, "Love... I know words are no good, but I'm so sorr – " 

"No!" she gasped, like I'd stabbed her. "Don't say that." My heart dropped into my boots, but she went on, "Don't – every time we fight, you always – you're always the one to say it first. Just this once, let me..." She was trembling, this woman who'd faced down hellgods without blinking. "I – you were right. I should have known better. It's my – " 

"You stop now." I was at her side in an eyeblink. Didn't quite dare take her in my arms, not yet. "Buffy, love, you were right too. If I'd not taken my pleasure with Mears, none of this – " 

She laughed wildly. "Oh, I'm sure Warren and Andrew would have just gone home and played checkers for the next fifteen years," No tears, not this time; Spike's no longer accorded the privilege of seeing the Slayer weep. "Do you know the real reason I let you live after you killed him, Spike? Because you saved me the trouble of doing it myself." 

"You know that's not true. You'd never have – " 

"But I would! I almost have, lots of times! Ted, Finch, Faith, Katrina, Sparrow – the only reason that I'm not a murderer is sheer luck. It's not fair," she whispered. "I did the selfish thing back then, and I did the right thing this time, but it's now I'm being punished for it. It's not _fair._ " 

I wanted to tell her there was no fair about it, no karma, no fate – that shite just happened, without regard to who deserved it. Who'd know better than I, who dealt out the shite in question to so many for so long? But I had just enough sense to realize that words weren't wanted at the moment. I reached out to her then, careful as Androcles confronted with a wounded lioness, and for a wonder, she allowed it. Buffy stood stiff and unyielding in my arms, but her fingers gripped my jacket so tight it's a miracle they didn't punch through the leather. "I can't ask you to take me back," I whispered. This was a thorn that would be years in the drawing, as I'd so foolishly driven it deeper. "But whatever you need of me, whatever you want of me, I'm here to do." 

Her shoulders heaved, once, as she took an ugly, hiccupping breath. "I need you to be here." 

"Then here I'll stay." 

We both pulled apart then, awkward, though I had to force my hands to let her go. Buffy wiped her eyes, careful of smudging her makeup, and took a deep breath. "But there have to be conditions." 

"Anything," I replied promptly. 

She looked away; out at the trees, down at the toes of her boots. "When you said this couldn't happen again," she said, "you were right. We can't let it. So from now on...you know my pills aren't totally reliable when it comes to preventing..." She made a vague gesture encompassing our respective middles. "Supernatural nookie from running its course. But we know what is reliable." 

For a second I thought she'd taken shagging off the table altogether. Then I realized: the Mohra blood brought me to life, but I'm still a vampire. And for vampires, it's always about the blood. The tiniest of nips when we did the deed was all it took, but without that tiny nip, the chances of me knocking her up again were virtually nil. "Ah," I breathed, and dropped my head to hers. "As you wish, love." 

"I've really made up my mind on – oh. Okay." Was there a shadow of disappointment in her voice? Had she wanted me to argue the point? Couldn't risk it, not now, when everything still hung by a thread. Was that evidence of Will's vaunted change? Or just more evidence that yours truly's got a yellow streak down his back fit for a six-lane highway? Buffy bit her lip. "Do you have your things in the car?" 

"A few. I'm still invited, then?" 

She half-laughed, half-sniffled. "I didn't disinvite you while you were trying to kill me. Why should I disinvite you for being a jackass? Get your stuff, and come home." 

I stood there a long minute more, then went round to the rear of the car to get my meagre kit out of the boot. Up at the house, the lights were going on. Inside, I'd bridges to mend. I set my jaw, hefted my bag and slammed the boot closed. Will was right; I'd changed. Just... not enough. 

Not _yet,_ anyway. 

**The End**


End file.
